


Quarantining with McCartney: Lennon's on the Line

by waveofahand



Series: Dating Paul McCartney [8]
Category: McLennon - Fandom, Paul McCartney - Fandom, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Dating Paul McCartney, F/M, It's kind of sexy, M/M, Paul is an obvlidiot, Quarantining with Paul McCartney, Someone is getting spanked and it won't be you, Your first big fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24157885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveofahand/pseuds/waveofahand
Summary: You and Paul are a few days into quarantine and it's been fun. It would be more fun if he'd get off the phone with John Lennon, who is mad because they can't get together and constantly calling, taking up all of Paul’s time. You can be a little mean. It all causes a fight between you and Paul, and then... well...you make up.But it's a real fight!
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney, Paul McCartney/You
Series: Dating Paul McCartney [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646920
Comments: 16
Kudos: 20





	Quarantining with McCartney: Lennon's on the Line

**Author's Note:**

> Generally, these Dating Paul pieces are on the brief side, and most of the time I try to write them as pure dialogue, but this one was a little more complex and needed some narrative, so it's a bit longer. Hope you like it!

Five days into quarantine. Paul is on your bed, which is covered with papers and inky spots, and he’s been on the phone for nearly two hours. Guess who he has been chatting with, in a low voice?

“Aw, Johnny, come on. It’s only two weeks, and we’re five days into it, so it’s practically half over. It’s like what, seven days left, or something? Then we’ll get together again. (He listens) Yeah, okay, so fuck me, I was never good at maths. Eight days a week, then? (Chuckles fondly) You also are no good at maths, son. (Listens) Well it’s kind of nice, though, innit? You’re getting some time alone with Cyn and the baby? I’m getting some time alone with – _hey, be nice_ , or I’m hanging up. (Listens, smiling) No, I’m just funning. You know I won’t hang up on you. But be nice! I’m having a good time with --”

“Umm… _Paul?_

He looks up at you, with his hand over the phone.

“Yeah, baby?”

“You going to be on the phone much longer?”

“Do you need it? I can hang up.”

You think you can hear John yelling. You give Paul a smile because he looks embarrassed about it.

“Aw, you’re sweet to ask, but no, not now. Later, though, Mum’s expecting me to call, yeah?”

“I won’t be long, love. John and I are just writing a song together.”

“Over the phone?”

“Aye we do that. Missin’ me guitar though…[George should have forgotten me briefcase and brought the guitar.”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24052450)

John is now clearly yelling over the phone; you can hear him but indistinctly. He sounds annoyed. Paul is blushing as he puts the phone back to his ear. “Shush, now, John. I told you to be nice. No, I don’t care if you’re waiting. You’re not the only one in my life, are you? And you’ll wait while I talk to someone else just as I’d wait if you were talking to Cyn, then…’tis only polite.”

You’re kind of pleased to hear that Paul say you’re in his life, but annoyed that John is so annoyed. Also, two other words suddenly bother you enough that you raise an eyebrow in your oblivious boyfriend’s direction. “Did you say ‘Someone else’ to John? I’m just ‘ _someone else_ ’ to you? Don’t I even get a name?”

Paul turns to you, smiling, until he sees you’re not smiling back. He gives you one of those patient, ‘oh, come on’ looks that usually work on you.

It works this time, too, because you’re helpless with him. “Oh, come on, my poppet, it’s just John. We’ve got to keep up -- answer when the muses strike you know!”

“Oh… well then, am I your muse? Or just _someone else?”_ (You pull off one of his shoes and start stroking his foot.) “Can someone else find your tickle spot that easily then? Not John, eh?”

Paul falls back, laughing. John sounds louder and more annoyed, and Paul turns his head away to speak.

“No, I’m not laughing at you, John!” He turns to you. “Love, _stop!_ You know I can’t take being tickled.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, what _can_ you take then? Can you take this?” You pull down your pajama bottoms and moon him. When you turn back around, he is licking his lips and looking at you with an amused light in his eye. So you flash him from the front.

He groans, low and sexy.

“All yours _for the askin’_ big boy,” you tease, “if you’d just get off the phone and _ask_. Bet John’s not going to make you a better offer!”

Paul smiles at you, hugely.

“John, maybe I should call you back, yeah? What? Well, it’s just a middle eight, it will come for you. (Pause) Do _what_ now?”

Blushing from his cheeks to his ears, Paul hurriedly stands up and basically pushes you out of the room, closing the door on you. He seems to have forgotten that it’s your room, which pisses you off mightily. Also, you just flashed him and he throws you out? Oh, no, he didn’t!

“Your loss, JP,” you yell. “Idiot!”

You listen through the door. Hard to hear because he’s mad and muttering at John, low and through his teeth. It sounds like he’s saying, “You want _me_ to come for you? Oh, very witty, John, very smart. _Nice._ Is Cynthia around to hear that? Is Jules?”

You open the door, barging in, and Paul turns back to you, looking up. “I’m hanging up, now” he says. You’re not sure whether he is talking to you or John, but you’re pleased when he actually does. You narrow your eyes at him, anyway, because you’re tired of being so easy. Paul pretends to gasp. “Don’t narrow your eyes at me like that, you sly little fox. Come ‘head here, then, baby, come sit on my lap. Show me what you just showed me, before, yeah? I want to see!”

“You do?” You pout.

“Oh, aye, I really do. Barely got a glimpse you know, because you’re a fast little thing, aren’t you,” He puts his hands underneath your shirt, caressing you. “You don’t run away that fast, though, do you?”

“Well,” you purr, “not when I really want to be caught.”

“Mmmm, I think I need to bite this foxy piece and see if I like the way you taste.” He begins to bite your neck, right where it meets your collarbone, which he knows drives you crazy. He moans again, and so do you, shivering a little. Things begin to get pretty toasty, pretty quickly, when his hands go to your hips to pull you closer. Everything is perfect.

Until the phone rings.

Paul jumps and lunges for it. “Sorry, love, just one mo’, yeah? I have to take it.”

You slump to the side, feeling cheated. “Why? _Why_ do you have to take it?”

“John, what is it,” you hear him ask.

“Oh, John! Of _course!_ John calls, you answer. He says ‘jump’ and you ask ‘how high?’”

“You have the middle eight, you say?” Paul has his hand over his unused ear. “Shush, baby, give me a minute, yeah? No, not you, John. I – hon, really, it will just be a second. How about you make us some tea, and by then I’ll have gotten off--” He listens for a second and then chuckles into the phone. “Stop that, Johnny.”

That’s the line. You have a line, and Paul has just met it. “Get your own damn tea, you … you… oblivious idiot! [You _obvlidiot!”_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22929550)

You think you probably have that word wrong, but it works for dramatic effect as you shove your shoes on. “I’m out! Going for a walk! Have fun with your boyfriend, John! Hopefully you’ll have _gotten off_ by the time I come back. _If_ I come back.”

It’s an empty threat. You’ll be back. He knows it. And not just because it’s your flat.

“Baby, wait,” Paul calls out. “Please, love!” He starts to stammer, like he does, sometimes, which ordinarily you’d find pretty cute. “First off, he’s, h-he’s not my boyfriend, he’s my, my partn--”

“Your [_boyfriend_ ,”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23278180) you tease with a withering look. “Tell your boyfriend you hope he’s happy, because he’s chased me out of here – right out of my own bed. Tell him you’ve just missed out on a great shag, now, and ask him if maybe he wants a threesome next time!”

Paul is now a mess, trying to keep up with two conversations. “You just missed out on a great shag, now,” he says into the phone, to John. “And maybe a threesome!”

 _“Idiot!”_ you yell. “ _You’ve_ missed out on a great shag, not him! I wouldn’t shag him if he were…forget it. I’m out! This time for real!” You grab a scarf from a pile, toss it around your neck and storm out with a toss of the head and a slam of the door.

**Two hours later.**

It’s been raining. You’ve forgotten your umbrella. You look like a drowned rat and you’re shivering. You’ve decided that if Paul is still on the phone with John, you’re going to throw him out, quarantine or no.

As you head to the bedroom, you can hear him talking. He’s still on the damn phone, biting his nails while he looks out the window. “No, I don’t know where. It’s been a little while, though, and I thought – aye, you know. You both have tempers, then, aye?” 

_“Rat bastard,”_ you say in a low voice. You lean in on the doorway, eyes narrowed, not even moving the wet hair from your eyes, because you want to look just that pathetic and angry. Because you know it will upset him.

He turns to look and his eyes grow wide. “Oi! Speak of the devil!” He moves toward you, handing you the phone and clucking at you like a mother hen. “Yer mum, love, wondered why you hadn’t called! Look at you, you’re drenched! You’ll catch your death!”

“H-hi, Mum…yeah, that was Paul. Yeah… he _sounds_ nice, I know.” You’re trying to talk while Paul is rubbing your hair with a soft towel. “I know. Yes, I _know_ there is a quarantine and I shouldn’t have been out, I just... Yes, Mum, I _know_ I should carry an umbrella.” You roll your eyes at Paul, who laughs at you, and begins to take off your shirt. He’s got your warm, soft, fluffy robe all ready for you – the one he likes to pet when he’s been drinking – and helps you slip an arm in. “Yes, I _know_ I have a temper, Mum. No, I _know_ nice boys don’t like that, but Paul…Mum…Mum, will you listen to me? I wasn’t the one who…who…Paul was… he wasn’t getting off the phone!”

Paul has you wrapped in your warm robe, now and is shimmying your pants off you. He brings them down and then kisses the inside of your cold thigh with his warm lips. “Stop that,” you hiss at him. “I’m still mad at you! No, mum, not at you. Paul’s just…making me get into my robe and taking my wet clothes…”

Paul, still on his knees, notes you didn’t like the kiss, so he bites you in the same spot. Because that’s what Paulie does. _Paulie bites._

“Ow!” You give him a murderous look. “No, nothing, Mum. I’m… I’m sorry I worried you.” You look at Paul, who is now at your nightstand, where you see a whole set-up of hot tea. “Is that still hot,” you ask, knowing that if the answer is ‘yes’, you’re defeated.

He smiles and nods at you. “Just brought it in here before your mum called, didn’t I? Was worried you’d be cold. Rainin’ out!”

“I know it’s raining out, idiot!” You try, but you feels like you’ve really lost your high ground, now. “No, not you, mum, can I call you back? Yeah? I’ll call you when I’m… yes he’s made hot tea for me. Yes. Yes. _Yes,_ he’s _nice_ , alright? I’m hanging up now!”

“Baby,” Paul gives you a serious look as he slips sugar into your tea and stirs it. “You shouldn’t be impatient with your mum. She’s sweet. And she was only worried about you.”

You both know what he’s not saying: _you’d miss her if you didn’t have her around._

Had he said it, he’d be right, and you know it. You sigh as climb into the bed and take the tea from him. He pulls the afghan your mum knitted for you (with her own two hands), over your legs, rubbing over it to warm them. It feels like a blanket of guilt coming from Mum and Paul both

Neither of you speaks for a minute. You feel bad. And you can see he does, too. 

“I’m sorry,” Paul starts, speaking softly. “I shouldn’t have answered the phone. And I should have told John to—to, you know. Stop calling. It's just... you _know_ how he is.”

"No, I don't. How is he?" You're seriously asking. 

"It's just..." Paul sighs and looks down. "If I don't take his calls, he feels abandoned, like."

"He's a grown man, Paul."

"Aye, and it's just what he's not, though. He's a little boy who has been abandoned, and he will never be anything else."

You're quiet for a minute, then you take one of his hands into your own. "I hope I don't sound unsympathetic, you know. But if you ask me, he always seems not just insecure, but _jealous_. He just wants you all to himself."

"Hah!" Paul throws his head back, amused at how perceptive you are. "Yes, there is that, too. He does get jealous, love, always has. It's all of a piece, you know. If I spend too much time with someone, that little boy gets scared I'm going to like them better, and leave him for them. He's' been jealous of everyone, you know. George, Ringo. Mal. Mimi."

"Mimi?" You're giggling. 

"Oh, aye, I swear once he thought she loved me better than him. And that was back when she was referring to me as that 'common, RC boy from the lower classes' and [tellin' me I couldn't come in the front door." ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/45597766)

"Oh, no," you laugh.

"Oh, yes. And so, you see love, I can't help it. When he calls, I will always be there, if I can. But," he kisses your hand, "This was one time I should not have. I was very wrong to answer the phone when we were in the middle of...it was all going so good..."

“Yeah,” you agree. “But… I said some mean things. I didn’t have to go there. I’m not very nice when I’m angry.”

Paul looks up, no longer rubbing your legs, but still stroking them. His eyes are big and beautiful and full of regret. “Well, you had good reason to be, didn’t you?”

“ _Maybe._ But even so, I don’t want to fight with you, anymore.”

“No, I don’t, either, love. Hate it when we fight.” He smiles at you, running his hand further up your thigh. “Can we – d’you think we can just put it away – put it behind us, I mean -- and you know… move on?”

“Depends,” you smile. “Where, exactly were you thinking of moving on to?”

His eyes pop a little. You’ve surprised him, and he’s delighted. “I’ve got two lips, ten fingers and a tongue, lovey. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go…”

“That’s _all_ you’ve got,” you frown, sipping your tea. “Nothing else to offer me, then?”

“Oh,” he groans. “So you want the deluxe tour package, do you? With a special appearance by The McSéamus, then?”

“I’m only dating you [for The McSéamus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19217335), you know. Without that perky Irish devil, you’d be nothing.”

“Mmm, so I’ve been told,” he murmurs into your wrist as he kisses you there. “But only by mean people. Are you mean, baby?”

“Mmm, yes, I am so mean.” You moan, guiding his head where you want it, “but then I make up for it.”

You can feel his lips smiling. “Mmm, I do love to make up…”

You’re both getting into a lovely little groove, so you move to put your teacup down. As you do, your eyes spot something.

“Paul?”

“Mmhmm?”

“Paul… why is there a _spatula_ on my bed?”

There is silence. A pregnant seeming pause. Paul keeps his head down. “A what, now?”

You know him so well. You know he has a selective hearing problem. You know that his question is an avoidance tactic. You didn’t even have to take Psych 101 to know this.

“A spatula, Paul. On my bed.”

“Oh. That.” He lifts his head to you with a bad little smile. “That’s not a spatula, baby. That’s something special, just for you…”

“Oh, yeah? You planning on making me eggs in the morning, then?

“No, no, sweet, this is not a spatula.” He reaches over and picks it up. “Bought this when I started dating you, I did, because you have such a fresh mouth." He traces around your mouth with the thing. "Been meaning to show it to you.”

“Ah, so it’s something to correct my bad language, is it, Paulie?”

“Mmhmm, and [your bad grammar, too](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22834954). Because you have such a mouth on you.”

“You’ve always said you loved my mouth.”

“Oh, I do, love, I really do.” He leans down to kiss you, deeply, seriously. It’s a sigh-worthy kiss, so when it breaks, you sigh, and he does, too. “I _love_ your mouth, but you know…you’re very bad, sometimes, the things you say. When you're mean. Or you just want to be _bad.”_

“Oh, yes,” you breathe, “and what has that to do with eggs?”

“Nothin',” Paul smiles, rapping you lightly on the thigh with the spatula. “But I told you, this is not a spatula."

"Ouch! Well, what is it, then?"

His smile gets huge. "It’s a _spankula,_ darlin'! And it’s meant just for you!”

“You don’t spank _me_ with a spatula.”

“Indeed. But this, as I said, is a _spankula,_ not a spatula! But if it takes a demonstration to convince you, then flip over!”

He starts tickling you and you kick him from where you are hiding under the covers. He’s adorable. And he’s so stupid for [thinking you’re so stupid.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23278180)

“Stop! Stop! Wait, Paulie, I have a question!”

He’s kissing you all over your face, laughing with you. “What, love? Ask me anything!”

“You really bought that – that _spankula_ , for me?”

“Absolutely…the better to _spank_ you with, my dear…”

“Well, but, wait, wait. No, stop rubbing against me there…”

“I like rubbing against you there…”

You have your hands on his chest, because you really need him to stop doing that, or you will lose. “No, _really_. Stop for a minute, please?”

He purses his lips in a delicious pout that any other time you’d fall for, because you love a man who can make a _moue._

“I really, really have to give you credit, Paul. Really. Masterful. I knew you were quick witted, but this was my favorite of all of your excuses and saves.”

“Well, whaddya mean, lovey, what ‘save’ is this?”

You eye the spatula – the _spankula_. “That’s for me, then?”

“Aye. Just told you.”

“You bought it when we started dating, because of my fresh mouth?”

“Because of your terrible beautiful mouth, yes.” He moves in to kiss you again, but you stop him.

“Well, then, how come I’ve not seen it before now, tumbling out of your briefcase, with your papers? Why’s it in your briefcase, at all, when you don’t usually have it on you when we’re together? _Hm?”_

Paul’s eyebrows go ‘way up, “Well you know…”

“I know _what,_ Paulie?” You smile like Satan about to swallow a soul. “You went _on a short trip_ with my personal _spankula_ in your briefcase?”

“Well, I knew I was going to want to see you as soon as I got home, didn’t I,” he babbles, “so I packed it! To have ready!”

“Oh. Oh, no.” You shake your head, sounding very serious, as you sit up. “Oh, Paulie, no. I’m sorry. You came so close, just now, but no. Now you’ve gone from improbable to incredible. You cannot really expect me to believe any of this, especially not that you somehow knew you were going to come directly to my flat after your trip, which we’d never discussed in all those phone chats --”

“But--”

“Shh, love, _shh.”_ You rub his chest warmly. Like an understanding parent who has just caught a child in a big, big lie. “And you can’t expect me to believe that because you had this idea you never mentioned or spoke about, you packed this spatula…I’m sorry, this _spankula_ , just for me. Into your briefcase, not your luggage. Your briefcase that you never open when we’re together because it’s where you keep your work. Your briefcase that you said George should have forgotten, instead of your guitar? That briefcase?”

Paul, for the first time in your relationship, looks defeated. And he’s adorable at it, with his reddened cheeks and his lips pressed together tightly.

“Baby,” Paul starts. “Why you gotta be so smart?”

“Gotta? Are you using bad English again?”

Paul sighs. He’s got nothing left but his eyes to fall back on. He raises them to you, all round and warm, and gives you a look that he knows damn well will melt you.

“Don’t you work those eyes on me, Paul McCartney, I know you too well to fall for it.” Because he doesn’t have to know you’ve already fallen apart inside, and are nothing but mush. “Just be honest, now, baby. Tell me what the… that _thing_ is for, alright? The truth, now.”

He gives you that look, again. “Alright, then, the truth.” He hands the spatula to you. “It's the better to spank _me_ with, my dear.”

Your grin is so wide, it could swallow your whole face. “Oh, no,” you say. “No, we can’t have that.”

You throw the spatula to the side. “If anything is touching that beautiful little arse, it’s going to be my hand, all by itself. Full on. I want to feel you burn.”

You hear him groan, and it thrills you down to your toes. “Now then, JP, my baby, my sweetie… my bad, bad, boy. _Flip over.”_


End file.
